Night Fever

Night Fever by Diana Palmer Read Free Book Online

Book: Night Fever by Diana Palmer Read Free Book Online
Authors: Diana Palmer
skirt and white blouse, and rushed out of the office.
    Fortunately, the elevator was empty except for the cold-eyed Mr. Kilpatrick in his long overcoat, his thick black hair ruffled, and that eternal, infernal choking cigar in one hand. He gave her a cursory going-over that wasn’t flattering.
    â€œYou wanted to talk,” he said. “Let’s go.” He pushed the ground floor button and didn’t say a word until they walked into the small coffee shop in the drugstore. He bought her a cup of black coffee, one for himself, and a doughnut. He offered her one. But she was too sick to accept it.
    They sat down at a corner table and he studied her quietly while he sipped his coffee. Her hair was in its usual bun, her face devoid of makeup. She looked as she felt—washed out and depressed.
    â€œNo cutting remarks about my cigar?” he prompted with a raised eyebrow. “No running commentary on my manners?”
    She lifted her wan face and stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. “Mr. Kilpatrick, my life is falling apart, and I don’t care very much about your cigar smoke or your manners or anything else.”
    â€œWhat did your father say when you told him about your brother?”
    She was tired of the pretense. It was time to lay her cards on the table. “I haven’t seen or heard from my father in two years.”
    He frowned. “What about your mother?”
    â€œShe died when the boys were young, when I was sixteen.”
    â€œWho takes care of them?” he persisted. “Your grandfather?”
    â€œOur grandfather has a bad heart,” she said. “He isn’t able to take care of himself, much less anyone else. We live with him and take care of him as best we can.”
    His big hand hit the table, shaking it. “Are you telling me that you’re taking care of the three of them by yourself?!” he demanded.
    She didn’t like the look on his dark face. She moved back a little. “Yes.”
    â€œMy God! On your salary?”
    â€œGranddad has a farm,” she told him. “We grow our own vegetables and I put them up in the freezer and can some. We usually raise a beef steer, too, and Granddad gets a pension from the railroad and his social security. We get by.”
    â€œHow old are you?”
    She glared at him. “That’s none of your business.”
    â€œYou’ve just made it my business. How old?”
    â€œTwenty-four.”
    â€œYou were how old when your mother died?”
    â€œSixteen.”
    He took a draw from the cigar and turned his head to blow it out. His dark eyes cut into hers, and she knew now exactly how it felt to sit on the witness stand and be grilled by him. It was impossible not to tell him what he wanted to know. That piercing stare and cold voice full of authority would have extracted information from a garden vegetable. “Why isn’t your father taking care of his own family?”
    â€œI wish I knew,” she replied. “But he never has. He only comes around when he runs out of money. I guess he’s got enough; we haven’t seen him since he moved to Alabama.”
    He studied her face quietly for a long time, until her knees went weak at the intensity of the scrutiny. He was so dark, she thought, and that navy pin-striped suit made him look even taller and more elegant. His Indian ancestry was dominant in that lean face, although he seemed to have the temperament of the Irish.
    â€œNo wonder you look the way you do,” he said absently. “Worn out. I thought at first it might be a demanding lover, but it’s overwork.”
    She colored furiously and glared at him.
    â€œThat insults you, does it?” he asked, his deep voice going even deeper. “But you yourself told me that you were a kept woman,” he reminded her dryly.
    â€œI lied,” she said, moving restlessly. “Anyway, I’ve got enough problems without loose

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